


A Helping Hand

by pasiphile



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Character, Bondage, Dom!Sherlock, Dom/sub, F/M, Fingerfucking, Glove Kink, Sub!Molly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2018-01-14 22:46:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1281571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasiphile/pseuds/pasiphile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>for prompt: "Sherlock tying Molly up in the lab and slowly fingerfucking her with his leather gloves on"</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Helping Hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [holyfant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/holyfant/gifts).



She was staring at Sherlock’s fingers again.

It was a bad habit, one she had tried to fight, but it never worked. Besides, they were nice hands, weren’t they? Objectively? It wasn’t just her being a weirdo, staring at them like that, was it?

Oh, who was she trying to fool.

Sherlock flipped a scalpel around and made a satisfied sound, one that sounded a bit like –

Molly directed her eyes at the ceiling, cheeks flaming, trying very hard to get her mind back in check.

“Tweezers,” Sherlock said, holding out his hand without looking up from his specimen.

“Oh, right, sorry.” She grabbed the tweezers from the table and handed them over. Her fingers very briefly brushed his palm, sending something close like an electric shock to her skin. God, she hoped he wouldn’t stay too long, because this was getting embarrassing. Even more embarrassing than usual.

“Hmm…” Sherlock said, still bent over the whatever-it-was he was dissecting – she’d found things worked better if she didn’t inquire too much. “Well, that’s disappointing.”

“No luck?” she asked, a little nervously.

“No. Natural causes after all, it seems.” He straightened up and stretched, tilting his head back so his throat was exposed, tendons briefly standing out.

It really was a very nice throat.

“Right.” He jumped up from his chair and pulled his gloves on, with his usual brisk semi-aggressive movements that only made her blush deeper. “Now that’s in…” He gave Molly a fleeting look and paused. “Are you alright? You look feverish.”

“I’m fine,” she said.

“Sure?” He looked back at his sample. “Maybe I should have tested it more thoroughly, could be it’s contaminated after all.”

And then he was suddenly in front of her, his gloved hand on her cheek, thumb beneath her eye. She shivered, hard, wanting at the same time to push him off and pull him as close as she could.

He tipped her chin up and peered at her eyes. “Any nausea? Burning sensation in your stomach? Any – ”

“Sherlock – ” she started, trembling.

“Could be delayed-onset, of course, but I’m not feeling anything untoward so – ”

“ _Sherlock_.” She wanted to cry. “That’s – that’s not why I’m blushing. I mean. I’m not sick, I’m – ”  _Lusting after you like a cat in heat_.

“Then why are you – ” and then his eyes went wide. “Oh.  _That_.”

“Yes.” She fidgeted. “Sorry.”

“Well, that’s… unfortunate,” Sherlock said. His eyes had gone a bit distant, but his hand was still on her cheek.

“It’s, um, no need to feel, um, embarrassed,” she tried. “It’s just a thing, it’s just… it doesn’t matter,” she finished weakly.

He suddenly focused on her again. She felt  _skewered_. Crystal-clear eyes, piercing, the sort of eyes she used to read about in her romance novels.

“It doesn’t matter?” he repeated, in that deep-bass rumble that always made her knees a little weak.

“Um,” she said.

“How long since you broke up with Tom again?” he said. “Five months? And you’re not the type to have casual sex outside of a steady relationship, so you must have suffered a substantial amount of sexual frustration the last few months.”

“Wh- what?”

“Take your pants off.”

She blinked. She must have misheard him. Right? He couldn’t have – have said what he just said. It was just her misinterpreting things as usual.

He pulled his hand away. “Underpants. Off. They’re going to get in the way otherwise.”

Or maybe she hadn’t misheard. “In the way of  – of what?” Molly squeaked.

He gave her unimpressed look. “Of my hand, obviously. Unless you’re suddenly unwilling?”

“ _No_. I mean, yes, I mean – sorry, erm…” She squeezed her eyes shut and willed her words to make sense.

She opened her eyes again. “Why?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Because I have about another hour until I’m supposed to meet one of my homeless network and Mary told me not to interrupt her and John tonight. And besides, isn’t that what  _friends_  do? Help each other out in need?”

“Well, yes, but not, erm…”

He rolled his eyes. “Not with sex, for some  _bizarre_ reason. Pants, Molly.”

She stared at him. And then slowly, still expecting him to start laughing at her any minute, to tell her it was just a joke, she hooked her fingers in the waistband of her panties and slid them down her hips, leaving her skirt on.

They fell down on the floor, crotch up, wet spot clearly visible. Molly’s embarrassment went up a notch.

“Right,” Sherlock said, slowly turning around, eyes travelling the lab. “Now where… The morgue would be the obvious choice, but we might be disturbed there, so…”

“And we won’t be disturbed here?”

“I locked the door,” Sherlock said absently, still looking around the lab.

“But you don’t have the code, do - oh, never mind.”

“Hm. Oh well, the counter will have to do.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a loop of white cotton rope.

She stared at it. “Um. You keep rope in your – your coat?”

“Obviously I do. You never know when there’s a sudden need to tie someone up. Although I didn’t really have  _this_  in mind, obviously,” he added.

“You’re going to – ” She gulped. Was she dreaming? Was this a particularly good and vivid wet dream? “You, erm, don’t have to, I’m perfectly happy with, er, normal sex.”

He shrugged. “My tying could use a bit of practice, so we might as well. Besides, you might start getting trouble with your submissive tendencies if you keep trying to suppress them.”

“My  _what_?”

“Submissive tendencies.” He snorted. “Obvious. Strong desire to please, hesitation to make your own decisions, a clear respect for authority, unease with unclear social rules… that and the fact that your pupils dilate every time I grab your arm a little too hard, it doesn’t exactly take an expert.  _Turn_.”

She turned around, hands flat on the counter. And flushed when she realised how quickly she had obeyed him.

“Hypothesis proven, I’d say,” Sherlock said smugly from behind her. He pulled her wrists together behind her back and looped the rope around them.

Molly was already panting. But Sherlock was right, it  _had_ been five months, with nothing but her own hands and that vibrator she’d bought on a whim, and she was really starting to miss having sex. Besides, she would be lying if she said this wasn’t something she often fantasized about it.

But that was  _fantasy_ , and she’d known for ages that it was going to stay fantasy, because Sherlock wasn’t…

Her stomach plummeted, suddenly. Sherlock  _didn’t_ , he didn’t  _do_ sex, so why… Was he just trying to indulge her?

She’d never thought she would end up worrying about Sherlock doing something against his will, for her benefit, but there it was.

“Sherlock,” she started, trying to look at him around.

He reached around, took her chin and pulled her head back to face away from him. “Stay still.”

The casual order sent butterflies flying in her stomach. Maybe she should just let him go on? He’d offered, after all. But the thought that he was doing this without really wanting it was making her stomach turn.

“You’re worrying,” Sherlock said, while he was typing up her other wrist. “Suddenly. Care to share  _why_?”

“Because you…” She tried to find the right words. It wasn’t easy, not while she was distracted by the tight rope around her wrist, the occasional brush of Sherlock’s warm fingers against her skin. “You’re not, you  _don’t_  – ”

“Ah. Well, no, not generally. But don’t make assumptions based on limited data, Molly, you’re a scientist, you know better than that.”

“I don’t understand,” Molly said, because she didn’t, although there wasn’t much room left in her head for rational thought.

“Under the right circumstances – ” He pulled hard at the rope and Molly gasped, “with the right person, the idea of being the, ah, giving partner isn’t entirely unpleasant.”

He flipped her around. She was leaning back against the counter, hands tied securely behind her back.

Sherlock cocked his head. “Any other worries or concerns we need to address?”

She couldn’t help but smile at that. “You’re being really considerate, you know.”

He grimaced. “Mary has er,  _drilled_ me regarding certain aspects of what she calls  _human interaction_. She’ll be glad to hear it paid off. Sit up,” he added.

She wriggled back. It was awkward, without being able to use her hands, but she managed to sit on the counter top, next to the sink and a bit too close to where Sherlock had been messing about with scalpels and blood and his specimen earlier. Not that she really minded that much; she worked in a morgue, she was used to gore.

Sherlock’s eyes went sharp again. Studying her like he could read her preferences from her face – which, actually, was probably the case.

“Normally this would be something people feel strange about, wouldn’t it?” he asked, sounding exactly as vaguely-curious as he did when he was considering theories about crimes. “Having sex in a medical, death-related environment. But…” He gave her one of those rare, wide, bright grins. “You don’t mind, do you?”

She shook her head, mute.

“Spread your legs.”

She whimpered, but complied.

“Right. Lean back and relax.” He moved his hand to his mouth and his teeth closed around the tip of his glove, but –

“No, leave them on,” she said hurriedly.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

She squeezed her eyes shut. “Sorry, is that too weird?” she asked. Not that Sherlock had any right to judge her on being weird, really, considering all things she’d let Sherlock do to the corpses – whipping them had been one of the more  _normal_ things, actually.

“No, it’s fine,” he said easily.

He dropped his hand heavily on her knee, the leather of his glove cool against her skin. She shivered again, the kind of full-body shiver that she hadn’t felt in  _ages_.

And that was just her  _knee_ , oh god she was going to die.

Both his hands slid slowly up her thighs, dragging her skirt up along with it. She leaned back, wrists pulling against the rope.

He went over the top of her thigh to her pubic bone. She tilted her hips up, trying to get him to move  _down_ , but he didn’t budge. Watching her, again. She couldn’t meet his eyes.

His finger dragged down, blunt pressure, and then he turned his hand and she gasped – right, the seam of his glove, a tiny little ridge pressing up against her.

He slowly, gently, circled her clit. Her thighs were trembling, but when she tried to push her hips forward to increase the pressure he just drew back. Teasing. Bastard.

“Sherlock,” she gasped, “can you…”

“Shush.”

His finger went down, still moving slow. She let out a little sigh, part frustration, part relief.

“Lean back,” Sherlock ordered.

“But I…”

His lips went thin with impatience and he reached behind her, pushed against the inside of her elbows. She fell back with a gasp, forearms hitting the surface. She almost slid off the counter, but Sherlock grabbed her waist and pushed her bodily back.

“Stay like that.”

She nodded, turned on beyond belief.

Sherlock worked his hand underneath her bum and pulled her along again, adjusting her position, until she was almost entirely horizontal, only leaning on her elbows. Her shoulders were starting to shake a bit from the strain.

Sherlock’s hand found the inside of her thigh again. He squeezed – hard, not that she minded – and his thumb gave her clit a nudge. She jerked helplessly.

But he didn’t do anything else.

“Sherlock,” she moaned. “ _Please_.”

“Hm?”

“Can you please – oh  _god_.”

Because he had starting pushing his finger inside of her, still wearing his glove, and that was – was –

She canted her hips up and almost lost her balance again. She had practically no leverage like this, nothing to lean against. She couldn’t do a thing except lie back and let Sherlock…

Oh  _god_.

“Right,” Sherlock murmured.

She lifted her head, tried to see him. He had that little furrow between his eyebrows, the one that always showed up when he was at some delicate stage of an experiment. She’d always thought of that as something a bit sexy, but now… It surpassed  _sexy_ and went straight to  _blisteringly hot_.

His finger curled up inside her. She gave a little moan, but he wasn’t there yet, not quite…

Luckily he caught on and moved, going slightly deeper and pushing up again, and then slightly lower – experimenting. On her.

Suddenly she was reminded of the awkwardness with Tom. On how she’d tried to gently tell him what he was doing wrong, how annoyed he’d got at it. How eventually she’d just given up on trying to explain, because it wasn’t like she didn’t enjoy it, was it? Just that she had this nagging suspicion it could be  _more_ , a bit like –

She gasped, loudly. “Yes,  _there_.”

“So I gathered,” Sherlock said drily. He pulled his left hand from underneath her arse and used it to spread her legs even further. “Molly? Still alright there?”

“ _Yes_ , yes, yes, please don’t stop, please, yes -” she chanted.

In response Sherlock pulled his finger back out. She whined at the loss.

“Show some patience, Molly,” Sherlock said, admonishing.

His finger slowly slid back inside, but it felt… She pushed up a little, craned her neck. Two fingers. Two of Sherlock’s long, skilled, leather-clad fingers, pushing inside of her almost painfully slowly.

Sherlock glanced up and frowned. “Down.”

“Sorry.” She tipped her head back again. “I just wanted – wanted to see…”

“Well, don’t.” His left hand let go of her thigh and he put it flat just beneath her breasts, pushed. Her elbows slid from underneath her and she ended up flat on her back with a loud thud, legs spread wide and dangling over the edge, and Sherlock’s fingers still inside of her. Her tied hands pressed against the small of her back, trapped, all she could do was squirm.

Sherlock slowly pushed in deeper – god, how  _long_ where his fingers exactly – and then he curled them up again and dragged down, until he hit her -  “Mnn _fuck_.”

“I am going to assume that meant approval,” Sherlock said, a hint of laughter in his voice.

“ _God_ yes,” Molly gasped.

His fingers curled up again, slow but  _hard_ , and again, circling, not giving her a second of mercy.

She sobbed and pushed her hips up. Nothing of friction to find there, just air, although… She wriggled again and her skirt slid down a bit from where it was bunched up around her waist, and the fabric brushed softly against her clit. As far as relief went, it wasn’t much, but at least it was  _something_.

She thrust her hips up a bit and the fabric stroked her again, a tiny bit of stimulation oh so sorely needed. But Sherlock had noticed.

“Oh, for god’s sake, will you stop that?” he snapped, irritated. He yanked her skirt back up and kept his hand there, on her lower stomach.

And again she felt that increase of pressure that meant – three fingers? Probably? Whatever he was doing, it felt  _good_.

She wriggled a little. Her skin was tingling with  _need_ , she’d never felt so satisfied and yet frustrated at the same time.

“Sherlock, Sherlock can you  _please_ just – ”

“Shut up, I need my concentration.”

“ _You_ need – ” But then a particularly hard stroke of his fingers sent her so close to the edge she almost thought that was it.

But still, not enough. She sobbed, squirmed in frustration. All she would need was one little touch, but Sherlock was very careful to keep his hand away from her clit.

She should’ve  _known_ he’d be the most frustrating lay she’d ever had.

“Sherlock,” she whined again.

“Almost there now, Molly,” he said calmly. His fingers curled up inside of her again, at a slowly steady rhythm, making warmth flood to her stomach, and -

And then finally,  _finally_ her orgasm hit her. She could feel herself clench down on Sherlock’s fingers, her hands struggling against the rope, her back arching up from the counter. Making noises, not very dignified ones, not that she cared about anything right now except this glorious brilliant feeling.

She dropped down again, still shaking with the occasional aftershock. Sherlock hadn’t moved his hand.

“Um, you can… ” she started. Her voice sounded embarrassingly shaky. “I mean, I’ve – You can stop now.”

“I could,” he said, calmly. “Theoretically. Or I could keep going. We still have time, after all.”

She stared at the ceiling. She was dreaming, had to be, things like this didn’t happen in real life. She did not get fingerfucked by Sherlock sodding Holmes in her lab – and definitely not more than once.

“Molly? You want me to stop?”

She shook her head. “No. Not really, no.”

“Good.”

He curled his fingers up again and his thumb pressed hard against her clit and she almost came again on the spot, gasping. He kept pressing up rhythmically, his thumb circling her clit much  _much_ too slowly, not speeding up even when she started to squirm.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” she pleaded.

“Patience.”

She nodded, tears in her eyes. Her orgasm seemed to creep up on her, teasing at the edges but not actually hitting her, Sherlock’s thumb still moving too slowly, not enough –

And then suddenly it  _was_ enough and she came. But again, Sherlock didn’t stop. He slid his other hand down, fingers pressing down flat against her, and his other hand was fucking in and out of her and oh god oh  _god_ –

She barely lasted a minute before her third orgasm hit her, almost painful in its intensity. Too much, but mercifully Sherlock really did stop this time. He kept his fingers inside of her as she clenched down reflexively, shuddered as she slowly came down again.

“Alright?” he asked calmly.

“Yes,” she said, blinking rapidly.

“Good.” He leaned over her, his hand – left hand, right was still inside of her – pulling cleverly at the rope, which suddenly fell away. She gingerly pulled her arms from underneath her back. They were a bit stiff, but not really painful, not even at her wrists.

Sherlock pulled his fingers out – she winced - and examined it with a fastidious twist of his mouth. “Well, this is going to be awkward to explain at the dry-cleaner’s,” he said drily.

Molly sat up and slid off the counter. But the moment she left the support of the counter her knees gave way, and she would have ended up on the floor if it hadn’t been for Sherlock’s quick reaction, his arm catching her around her waist.

“Sorry,” she said, muffled against Sherlock’s chest.

“I’ll take that as a sign you enjoyed it, then?” he asked sardonically.

“Yes. Definitely, yes.”

She stayed there for a bit, inhaling the smell of his coat – wool, and cigarettes, and something else she couldn’t put her finger on – and tried to gather her thoughts. Sex, right, so she should probably…

She reached for Sherlock’s crotch, but –

“Oh,” she said, her hand splayed awkwardly over his flaccid cock. “You’re not… you didn’t enjoy it?” And her stomach twisted a little again.

He shrugged and pulled her hand away, stepped back. “I rarely do. Don’t take it personally. And it doesn’t mean that I didn’t enjoy it.” He gave her a quick, fleeting smile. “You’re quite entertaining, when it comes down to it.”

“Entertaining,” she echoed, not sure if she should be insulted or flattered.

“Right,” he checked his watch. “Should probably get going now. Don’t forget to find your pants again, I think they’re somewhere underneath the sink.” He pulled his gloves off and took an evidence bag from her counter, putting them inside before stuffing them down his pockets again.

“Right. Um,” she said, still feeling dazed.

“Bye, Molly.” He spun on his heel and strode out of the lab.

“Sherlock!” she said loudly, just before he left.

He paused, hand on the door. “Yes?”

“Thank you,” she said, a little weakly.

“Anytime.” He turned again.

“But you don’t really mean that, do you,” she said softly, too soft for him to hear.

Or so she thought, but Sherlock stopped again, and then he turned back and strode back to her. She watched him, wide-eyed.

He stopped right in front of her and tipped her chin up. “I do mean it,” he said, almost gentle. “I’m more than happy to oblige your… urges.”

He leaned in and pressed a kiss against her forehead, and then he was gone in a whirlwind of flapping coat and nervous energy.

Molly stared at the floor a bit.  _Anytime_. Her stomach gave a little flip.

She sighed, happily, and went to her knees to fish her pants from underneath the sink.


End file.
